The Prodigal Son: A CATS Noir
by bigbywolff
Summary: An AU fic with film noir elements. Centred around a hardboiled detective trying to solve the murder of his ex- best friend, through his investigations he runs into burlesque clubs, femme fatales, and organised crime syndicates. Please R & R.
1. Ill Met By Moonlight

**This is essentially an AU story. The idea was to integrate as many film noir elements as possible, hence the hardboiled detective, various femme fatales, an urban setting where organized crime is rife, many mysteries, secrets locked in the past, and indiscriminate smoking. There are also deaths, and there is one in this chapter already.  
**

**This story owes its birth to Crispy-Gypsy's brilliant ****art**** on DA which melded Lackadaisy with CATS. This story might be in a different period (the 40's-50's instead of the 20's), but her art was crucial to imagining the characters in their current form. :)**

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**Chapter 1: Ill-met by Moonlight**

She walked briskly in front of him, her black mourning clothes clinging to her dark skin. As they strode down the sparsely lit corridor towards the morgue, her dark countenance gave her the illusion of disappearing and reappearing sporadically as she alternately blended with and stepped out of the darkness. Their conversation had been brief and terse, sparse on the details, and every attempt to query after her current emotional state was skillfully rebuffed, side-stepped, and thus evaded. Even throughout the taxi ride she had chosen to ride alongside of the driver, her head held stiffly, peering out into the dark streets as if afraid to turn around and look him in the eyes.

She finally stopped at a door, and turned to look at him, the mourning veil masking most of her features but failing to dull her piercing blue eyes. "He's here," she murmured, tenderly gripping the handle and pushing the door open.

He followed her wordlessly into the room, bracing himself for the worst. But the good people at the city morgue had had the prescience to shroud the body entirely with a white cloth. For a brief moment, he imagined, or perhaps, naively allowed himself to hope, that maybe it was an entirely different body beneath the shroud, that this was just a terrible mistake.

She gingerly lifted the two upper corners of the shroud and uncovered the body's face.

He felt his breath catch briefly in his throat as he inhaled in the momentary shock of seeing a familiar face. Yet there was something cold and hard, stiff and unnatural in the way the lips had been curled upwards and the eyebrows shaped into a vague verisimilitude of peaceful rest. He thought he had seen it all, and there was nothing that could shock him anymore, but this, his friend seemingly at rest and yet cold and plastic all at once, it unnerved him.

"Oh, Lonz…" he traced a paw along the black patch that encircled his friend's left eye. The fur was slightly powdery, masked by some makeup that had been carefully applied to hide the bruises that had marred his friend's face shortly before his death. He looked up at his friend's widow, trying to seek a sign that she felt the same horror, revulsion and pity that he felt but could not properly express. Yet she continued to evade eye contact, staring, transfixed at the face of his dead friend. When she next spoke, her voice was one of studied detachment.

"I told them to make it look like he had not felt very much pain."

Yet something broke on the word 'pain' and from underneath the shield of her mourning veil, a single tear slid down and shattered onto the cold metal table.

------

They headed back to the apartment she and Alonzo had shared. As she bustled around the kitchen making a pot of tea, he meditated on the facts of the case. Sparse as they were, they were a welcome diversion which enabled him to block out the image of his friend's body at the morgue.

"Do you know what Lonz had been up to, lately? No, thank you, I'm trying to quit." He said, refusing the offered cigarette. Cassandra raised an eyebrow, but shrugged and lit up her own cigarette. He barreled on, "Any enemies he could have made, or business partners that might have been primed to profit from his… passing?"

She sniffed. "You," she said pointedly, spooning out the tea leaves. "You of all people should know that the toms aren't allowed to tell us anything. In case we get catnapped and become _liabilities _and rat you out."

He bristled slightly. "That's skewing the truth, Cass. The rule was put in place to protect the queens and the kittens. The less you know, the less likely you'll be involved in any… business dealings we might have."

She turned sharply towards him and he felt the bright blue eyes bore into him through the veil. "Rules, rules, rules!" She tossed the tea towel in frustration. "Lonz used to mention the rules a lot too, every time I asked him questions. Munkustrap's good, honorable rules of engagement. He could quote them ad verbatim." Her body had gone stiff. "He thought he was being so honorable. Honorable! It's just another romantic word for 'naïve'. There's no honor among thieves. The thing about the rules is that they only work when everyone plays by them. Like that time with Electra—"

"Enough!" He snapped, feeling slight pleasure at the way she had jumped and recoiled slightly. "You don't go there, Cassandra. There are some wounds that have yet to heal with the Jellicle gang. I know you're hurting, but it doesn't give you the license to rub salt in other wounds. Especially," he breathed, speaking with clenched teeth. "That wound."

They stared down at each other in the cramped kitchen, glowering silently at the other. The kettle started whistling. Cassandra's head snapped towards the direction of the stove and she haughtily turned off the gas. Munkustrap buried his face in his paws, kneading his throbbing temples.

"I… apologise, Cassie. It's been a long night for both of us. I had no right to lose my temper like that." A short sniff issued from Cassandra was all the acknowledgment she gave that she had heard him. "Tell me, do you know at least who he was last known to be meeting with?"

There was an unexpected change in the mood of the room as Cassandra paused over serving the tea. "I don't know for sure," she murmured silkily. She strode to the living room where Alonzo's possessions lay strewn over the couch. She produced a piece of note paper from Alonzo's pocket and slid it across the kitchen table to Munkustrap. "Tell me," she said, once again, her voice low and dangerous. "Do you recognize the handwriting?"

Munkustrap didn't even need to scrutinize the note carefully, he knew immediately the only cat who crossed her 't's in that strange and slightly skitterish way.

"Demeter!?"

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**Please review, and point out any anachronisms (like whistling kettles not existing in the 40s and 50s :P)**


	2. The Heaviside Lair

**Chapter 2: The Heaviside Lair**

He surveyed the tawdry neon sign that heralded "The Heaviside Lair", a burlesque club of ill-repute but with excellent reputation. How long had it been since he'd stepped into that place? He sighed, thinking back onto the circumstances under which he had walked out of the club for the last time two years ago. Out of habit, he instinctively reached into his suit pocket for a cigarette but came up empty. Mentally uttering a curse, he crossed the street towards the entrance, lowering his hat and trying to slip in unnoticed. It wasn't very successful.

"Oy, please take off your hat, sir." A sturdy arm grabbed his, stopping him. "This is an establishment with ladies present, one needs to show them some common gentlemanly courtesy," the speaker drawled, somewhat ironically.

Munkustrap sighed. He was hoping to do this without attracting any attention. "When were you ever focused on gentlemanly etiquette, Pounce?"

Pouncival's eyes widened, his face losing its harshness. "Munk?" he whispered hoarsely. "What—what are you doing here? I thought you quit— didn't want no more of this life… unless, you're here to join us again?" He looked hopefully at Munkustrap. "You're here to rejoin your family, Munk?"

Munkustrap allowed himself the smallest of smiles as he looked into Pouncival's open, trusting face. "I don't think so, Pounce," he grimaced inwardly as the young tom's face crumbled. "I'm here on business. To see Tug. Is he in tonight?"

"Yeah, in his usual booth." Pouncival muttered, his disappointment turning to bitterness. He relinquished his hold on Munkustrap, as if physical contact with Munkustrap would make him sick.

Munkustrap surveyed the young Tom, the comparable harshness of his face juxtaposing uneasily with the bounce and joie de vivre of the Pouncival of his memory. He felt the two lost years rise up between them and extend an already insurmountable gulf. Was this the gulf that had lay between him and Alonzo as well? Was that the cause of their silence to each other for two years? In the face of death, all things were forgiven, and he found himself wishing that they hadn't wasted two years in resentment. His paw rose to pat the younger cat on the shoulder but he faltered, opting to adjust his hat instead. "Nice seeing you, Pounce. Take care of yourself, 'kay?"

But the younger cat looked resolutely out into the street, seemingly oblivious to the fact that Munkustrap had said anything at all.

-----

The layout had changed somewhat since he had last been in the club. In the mass of toms and queens squeezed together (some bodies more entangled than others), he found it hard to tell where Tug's favorite booth was. He headed to the open bar, where a black cat was putting up an impressive show mixing drinks.

The black cat looked up at Munkustrap as the latter sidled up to the counter, nearly forgetting to catch the mixer he had tossed into the air in his surprise. "Munk?!" He stared. "Are you here—"

"No." Munkustrap replied, kindly but firmly. He knew Quaxo would not take it as harshly as Pouncival did.

An enigmatic smile spread across the tuxedo cat's face. He shrugged. "I'm not surprised. Had you said 'yes', now, that would be a shocker. But you were always so sure of what your choice was." He frowned slightly. "I'm guessing you still haven't forgiven yourself for what had happened back then?"

Despite the memories the question brought up, he found himself that unlike when Cassandra had threatened to dredge things up, he didn't feel like smashing anything. Maybe it was the way the black cat had raised the question, open and ungrudging. "When did you get so precocious?" Munkustrap shot back, answering question with question.

Quaxo smiled crookedly. "It was hard when you left, Munk. We had to change and evolve to fill the gaps you left behind." He reached for a whisky bottle. "So what then, brings you to our fine and upstanding establishment?"

Munkustrap looked at the black cat. At length, he replied, "Lonz is dead, Quaxo. Cassie called me the minute she heard about it."

If Quaxo was shocked at the news, the only sign would have been the momentary pause before he set a glass down on the bar counter. "I'm sorry to hear that. He was a fine tom." He looked worryingly at Munkustrap. "So how does that concern you, Munk? You're not part of the Jellicles anymore, you've forsworn any obligation as protector you might have had. Forgive me for my bluntness, but some cats here may not want you getting involved. Some cats still haven't forgiven you for the choices that you've made."

"Cass hired me privately to take the case. I'm only doing this as a paid investigative job. There's nothing to do with vestiges of duty to the Jellicles."

The tuxedo cat looked at Munkustrap with a look verging on pity. "Do you really think the Curious Cat will play by those rules?" He sighed. "For your sake, I hope he proves me wrong this time. If there's anyone who'll get the unmuddled truth about Lonz's death, it's you. You're going to tell him about Alonzo?" Munkustrap nodded. "You handle Tug then, I'll tell the other Jellicles."

"Thank you, Quaxo."

-----

Following the map Quaxo had hastily scribbled onto the napkin, Munkustrap navigated the labyrinthine depths of the burlesque club. Quaxo had certainly not been overly-dramatic in describing the unruly sprawl of booths, tables and chairs. In spite of himself, Munkustrap appreciated how the club had taken on his half-brother's attributes, in contrast to the organized, regular state of things when he himself had been in charge. Reaching the spot Tugger's booth was supposed to be located, Munkustrap found himself contemplating a large mass of entwined bodies. It took him awhile to locate the characteristic splotch of leopard spots and reaching in to the wriggling mass, he grabbed a paw firmly, pulling its owner to his feet. "Rise and shine, Tugs."

"Whatchoodointomee?!" The Rum Tum Tugger slurred, momentarily disoriented. Drawing himself to his full height, he rubbed his eyes lazily and focused on the silver tabby. As recognition slowly dawned on him, a range of emotions subtly flitted through his face, surprise, incredulity, anger, and then a quiet detachment. His mouth curled into a characteristic sneer which never quite reached his eyes, he lifted his cigarette and took a long drag. "Well, do my eyes deceive," he drawled, mock-dramatically. "Or could it really be as that clichéd turn of phrase says, the prodigal son returns?"


	3. Armistice

**More indiscriminate smoking, more questions than answers, and finally a femme fatale appears. **

"**Don't Tell Mama" is owned by Kander/Ebb and is from the musical **_**Cabaret. **_

_------- _

**Chapter 3: Armistice**

After the various anonymous queens had scattered, Tugger and Munkustrap settled on opposing ends of the couch.

"Alright," muttered Munkustrap, tenderly massaging his eye. "If, and if, mind you, I had really done something to deserve that, did you have to sucker punch me so hard?"

Tugger sucked on his cigarette with an unusual vehemence. "Yes. You'd be glad to know that your reflexes haven't dulled though. I'm going to be limping for weeks to come. Thank the Everlasting Cat most of my best work is done… reclining. Otherwise you'd be in a whole world of pain now." He looked round and frowned. "I didn't order any champagne!" He snapped irascibly at the advancing tuxedo cat, who had in his paws a chilled bottle.

"It's not for drinking," Quaxo said patiently, in a tone one might use on a petulant child on the verge of a tantrum. "It's for Munk's bruise." He surveyed their surprise. "Am I being presumptuous here?" He raised his eyebrows in mock-concern at Tugger. "You did punch him didn't you? Or have you finally mastered the art of civil discourse?"

Tugger emitted what sounded like a "tuh!" and continued to puff his cigarette as Quaxo handed the bottle over to a grateful Munkustrap. With a curt nod to the two other cats, he smiled mirthlessly and departed.

"I swear he can see into the future, sometimes. Yet, he refuses to give me the winning lottery numbers." Tugger mused, as he watched the lithe black figure depart.

Munkustrap leaned back into the couch and pressed the cool bottle against his eye. In spite of the throbbing pain around his eye where Tug's paw had connected with his face, he savored the moment. Fighting with the Tug was a strangely welcoming experience. For a moment, he let himself be lulled by the flicker of nostalgia and let the world around him pull away and drown out; the couch he sat on was the bed he and Tugger shared as kittens; it was the couch they had sat in when Old Deuteronomy announced which would be his heir; it was the couch he sat alone in, in a similarly sucker punched state after the announcement was done; it was the couch in this very bar that everyone had gathered around when they heard the terrible news and Jenny began to wail…

His eyes popped open again, he tried to block out the later memory and focus on the earlier thoughts, but he found himself unable to anymore. He wished he could retreat back in to the sanctuary of sepia-toned memories, but as he looked around, the deafening music of the jazz band; the garish make-up on the burlesque dancers; the unceasing and alluring whiffs of cigarettes; and the cold silence of his brother on the other end of the couch; they jarred and jostled with the memories, asserting themselves as if telling him, "That was then, and this is the now." The horrible, twisted present that pressed in close to him and wouldn't let him forget it was there. His head throbbed, and he was sure this time it had nothing to do with Tugger's punch. When did he last sleep? He'd catnapped a bit before Cass had burst into his office, but that seemed interminably long ago. The taxi ride, the surreal walk down the coroner's office to the morgue, Alonzo cold and dead at the morgue… Alonzo. The thought washed over him, and he realized, for the first time since this unending night had begun, he felt the full weight of sorrow at his friend's passing. There was no time for self-pity now; he had a job to do.

The Rum Tum Tugger seemed to sense the strange melancholy emanating from his brother. "What, crying over a little bruise you got? Really, it breaks my heart. Makes me all repentant, it does." He stubbed his cigarette. "Two years in respectable society made you soft?"

Munkustrap sighed. "Alonzo's dead, Tug. The cops found him early this morning and informed Cass." On hindsight, Munkustrap thought that Tugger took the news with relative restraint. When Tugger had finished shouting and smashing glasses, he settled into the couch again, his teeth gritted, and his back arched, the effect of which, combined with his mane made him look like a slightly emaciated lion contemplating lunch.

"Who did it?" Tug snarled.

"If I knew, I assure you, the Lair would not be my first stop. I'd be running to the cops. Instead, I find myself trawling the seedy underbelly of society." Munkustrap replied drolly.

"The bulls," Tug snorted derisively. "What good are they? They'd never care about Lonz's death. Just another anonymous casualty of urban violence. You saw how useful they were when Electra was—" He stopped short of finishing the sentence and lit up another cigarette. "Thanks for coming to tell us. We'll take it over from here."

"I didn't come here to play informant, Tug. Cass hired me to investigate, and that's my job until the case is resolved."

"That makes no sense. Why would Cass choose you over her family?" Tug asked, with a sidelong glance.

"Maybe she decided that she didn't want this made into a glorious muddle by the Rum Tum Tugger." Munkustrap saw Tugger visibly stiffen at the statement. "That's one of the reasons I'm here to break the news to you myself. I don't want this to be handled… internally. You are going to stay out of my way. Do you understand, Tug?"

The maine coon took a long drag of his cigarette as Munkustrap winced. He wished Tugger wouldn't relish smoking so much. It made him crave cigarettes again, and he'd been trying so hard to stop. "One of the reasons," Tugger murmured, side-stepping his brother's question. "What other reasons do you have to be back here?"

"To see if I can get any more clues. Cass said she didn't know about Lonz's current job scope. What's he been doing lately?"

"Railway duty," Tugger answered shortly, as he rolled the cigarette between his fingers.

"Railway duty?"

"He makes sure stuff gets unloaded and loaded safely."

"What stuff?"

"Well," Tugger drawled lazily. "That's on a need to know basis. And you," he stabbed the cigarette in Munkustrap's general direction. "You don't need to know. It couldn't have had anything to do with railway duty anyway. Yesterday was his day off."

"What'd he do on his day off?"

"How should I know? We're not the frickin' Gestapo, we don't keep tabs on all our members."

"Who does he do railway duty with?"

"Why is this important?" He frowned. "I thought we established it's irrelevant."

Munkustrap shrugged. "If it is, then surely there's no problem if you told me."

Tugger closed his eyes and puffed on his cigarette. Munkustrap sensed Tugger was doing some quick thinking. "Tumble and Addy." Tugger finally answered. He saw Munkustrap's mouth open, and quickly cut him off. "They're not here though. They're out… running errands."

"Errands."

"Errands. You know," Tugger waved his cigarette vaguely. "Laundry, and the like."

"Right," Munkustrap deadpanned. "Why does laundry sound like a euphemism for something else?"

Tugger shrugged. "Need to know basis. 'Sides, you're too paranoid. Laundry is laundry. All toms need clean underwear once in a while."

"When will they be back?"

"Not any time soon." He puffed his cigarette enigmatically.

Feeling like he was ramming his head repeatedly against a wall, Munkustrap decided to switch to a different topic. "What about Demeter?" He asked casually. "Is she around tonight?" He immediately he'd hit a sore spot, because at the mention of Demeter, Tugger's single eyebrow shot up, and his mouth tightened into a thin line. What was it a sign of? Confusion? Guilt? Complicity? Anger? Tugger had become infuriatingly skillful at masking most of his emotions, such that even though you got the impression he was startled, you never knew which emotion it was that was being swallowed back down to where all unnecessary feelings go to die. To Tugger, most feelings were deemed unnecessary.

"Why, she linked to this case?" He peered at Munkustrap.

"That's on a need to know basis," the silver cat smirked.

"That's real cute, you know?" Tugger scowled. "Can't help you there, don't know where she is." He said flippantly, violently stubbing his cigarette.

"You expect me to believe that answer?"

Tugger look thoughtfully at his brother. "Ask her sister, she'll say the same thing."

"Where can I find her?" Munkustrap asked as a jaunty jazz tuned started playing.

"Try straight ahead." Tugger said drily, with an exaggerated flourish of his hand.

The previously empty stage now was now occupied by a tall red-headed cat strutting out in what Munkustrap surmised to be a modified nun outfit. He raised an eyebrow. "Mama," she crooned. "Thinks I'm living in a convent…" The club erupted into applause and catcalls. "Mama, doesn't have an inkling that I'm working in a nightclub in a pair of lacy pants." She lifted her skirt and flashed the audience briefly as the toms once again went wild. Even Munkustrap had to hand it to her. Most performers used to performing as a double act would have showed some sign of being ill-at-ease alone on the stage, but the unfettered attention lavished on her seemed to make Bombalurina an even larger stage presence than she had ever been. As she broke into the chorus of "Don't Tell Mama", shedding the nun outfit to reveal a halter top that cut to her navel, she purred coquettishly, cooed sultrily, and belted her way brassily across the stage and the floor and into the hearts (and wallets, Munkustrap though, sardonically) of the adoring toms that stared at her and pressed lavish gifts onto her. As she worked her way through the floor, she came closer and closer to the two brothers, her target clearly being the Rum Tum Tugger who was puffing his cigarette with a carefully calculated debonair air of boredom. On approaching them however, her eyes finally chanced upon Tugger's unexpected guest, and with the air of a cat that finally found a new toy to play with, she sidled up to Munkustrap's lap. "Please sir, just leave well enough alone," she cooed, nuzzling her face in his hair. "If you had a secret, you bet I would keep it." She teased, her mouth hovering next to his ear. "I would never tell on you." Getting off his lap, she sidled back up onto the stage, "If you see my mama," she heaved throatily, putting her finger to her pouting lips. "Mum's the word!" She finished her song to a standing ovation.

"That's some number." Munkustrap commented. Tugger merely puffed his cigarette with nonchalance.

When her act was over, Bombalurina made her reappearance onto the floor in a comparatively conservative outfit. Working her way through a crowd of toms anxiously inviting her to sit with them, she bestowed upon them each a smile, carefully crafted so its recipient would feel (or be willing to delude himself into feeling) like it was meant for just him alone. "There, there, toms. There are plenty of charming queens just clamoring for your attention. You don't need me." She said soothingly, stroking the eager toms' egos. When she finally reached her targets, she clambered once more onto Munkustrap's lap. "Well, well, look who's come home to us." She purred, as Munkustrap felt the ire of a great number of toms suddenly directed towards him.

"Just a business visit, Bomba."

"Boo," she pouted. "Is there no chance," she ran her finger along his collar, "that we might get you to," she toyed with his shirt button, "tarry a little?"

"Only if you have something interesting to say about your sister's whereabouts."

She half-smiled, and lifted her cigarette holder to her mouth. "Don't you know it's not polite to ask a girl about some other dame?" She exhaled. "We queens get jealous easily."

"I'm not here to be led to dance, Bomba," Munkustrap replied, half-wishing he could snatch the cigarette out of her paws. "So if you know something, spill. If not, get off of me."

"Well you sure know how to charm a girl," she snapped, her voice much less husky and ethereal now. "What can I say; I'm defenseless against such charm," she said sarcastically, shifting off his lap and crossing her arms. "What do you want to know?"

"Where's your sister?"

Her eyes darted to Tugger for a second before she replied in a monotone. "I don't know. Haven't heard from her in years." She spied Munkustrap's raised eyebrows. "Didn't you know?" She asked, obviously enjoying Munkustrap's distress. "She disappeared about a month or so after you left. Never heard from her since."

"You seem to be quite calm about your sister's disappearance."

Bombalurina flashed him a dark look. "She's a tough queen. She can handle herself."

"In the meantime, you get to headline at the Lair solo?"

She cocked her eyebrow at him. "That's real cold, Munk. How did you turn so heartless?"

"Funny, I might have asked you the same thing."

"Ever the charmer, Munk." She puffed her cigarette stiffly. "Bored now." She stood to leave with nary a glance to Munkustrap, leaving the two brothers alone again.

"I can see I've overstayed my welcome," Munkustrap said, as he watched Bombalurina's retreating figure. He rose from the couch, and to his surprise Tugger followed suit and walked with him toward the door.

"Drop the case, Munk," Tugger murmured, as they walked out into the cool night. "This has nothing to do with you. Don't get in over your head."

"Is that a threat?"

"I'm just sayin', there's going to be an outcry for blood when the rest of the Jellicles hear about this. I don't know what's going to happen if you can't deliver that."

"Oh, so this is concern?" Munkustrap smiled drily.

Tugger suddenly grabbed his brother by the collar. "This is not a game! Lonz is dead, Munk!" Tugger shouted, his voice echoing down the empty street. "And you, you are not family. 2 years ain't enough to change that; hell, Lonz's death ain't enough to change that. You can't come waltzing in here, and expecting people to fall in line with what you're doing. Nothing's changed between us." He relinquished his grip and pushed Munkustrap backwards. "A member of _our_ family is dead, and _we_ will be the ones to handle this. Someone's gonna answer for this, and the only way this is gonna end, is with blood spilt."

Munkustrap felt the bile rising in his throat even as he strove to swallow down his fury. "You think I don't care about Lonz's death? When I think about Lonz on that table in the morgue, it makes me want to retch; it makes me want to tear whoever did this apart with my bare hands. I can't drop this, Tug." He was breathing hard. "But there is more than one way to handle this. There are other means of finding out the truth, and other means to meting out punishment. Cass understands this, that's why she called me in instead of you."

Tugger gave him a long, appraising look. "Fine," he said, finally, breaking the silence. "We'll honor your contract with Cass because she's one of the family. We respect that, y'know, family. Any contract one of our family makes, we all respect it. You go do your thing. But you can bet that we won't be sitting back and waiting on you to come to your conclusion. If we find out who did this first, we're going to deal with this on our terms."

"Fine, but if I find the culprit first, you can't even touch a hair on him unless I say so. Deal?"

"Always about the rules, right till the end, Munk? Alright, once and former king. I accept your terms." He did a ridiculous flourish with a slight bow.

The two brothers looked at each other in silence for a while before Munkustrap wordlessly turned and walked off; leaving the taller cat in the cold where he stood for a while even after Munkustrap was well gone.

-------

**The highlight of noir, for me, has always been the interactions between the detectives and the various women that come into their lives, and I had fun writing this part. Bombalurina's nun outfit was based off a performance of **_**Cabaret**_** I watched where Sally Bowles did sing "Don't Tell Mama" in a stylized nun outfit. (But I've never been able to resist a singing nun. Who can?)**

**It's also been hard to write the characters as true to their original personalities, while trying to have them inhabit noir stereotypes. So if Munk sounds a lot more caddish than you might imagine him to be, er… blame stylization. _**


	4. What the Red Queen Knew

**Chapter 4: What the Red Queen Knew, or Down the Rabbit Hole**

Unbeknownst to Tugger, his brother had no plans of heading home yet. After he had put a sufficient amount of distance between him and his brother, Munkustrap turned a few corners before finding himself on the back road that led to the employee's entrance of the Heaviside Lair. He instinctively reached for his coat pocket again, only this time he retrieved a single cigarette that he had lifted from Tugger. He fiddled with it absently, putting it to his mouth a few times and taking imaginary puffs. _No good_, he thought grimly. The cravings were slightly assuaged but they had by no means abided. Restlessly, he returned the cigarette to his pocket and trudged on. He was reaching the Lair soon; he glanced up at the buildings and counted down the blocks, _three, two, one_… Hearing the door knob jiggle, he stopped in the shadow of the adjacent building and peered out at the entrance as voices leaked out into the silent alley.

"Joanie, my Joanie," moaned a rather rotund black and white cat as he stumbled out of the door into the alleyway. "The night is still so young! You simply must join me for supper!" Munkustrap noted that his dapper suit was slightly crumpled and his bowtie askew.

A red-headed cat clad in a dressing gown had appeared in the doorway, leaning against its frame. For a split second Munkustrap had thought it was Bombalurina, but her face was younger and rounder, and her figure more full. She flicked her cigarette and smiled coquettishly. "Where do you propose we go to?"

"Fox's!" the fat cat exclaimed, then catching himself hurriedly added, "Or Blimpy's, perhaps!" He leaned in to the young queen. "Come with me Joanie," he pleaded, as his monocle slipped off his nose and swung like a pendulum from its chain.

The younger cat laughed, but a nervous flick of her cigarette betrayed the impatience she had hid so well. "But I don't have anything nice to wear, Jonesie."

"Of course," the tom's face filled with a tender compassion. "How awful of me to overlook that! I should have brought you diamonds and a gown tonight! I promise you, the next time we meet, Joanie..." He held her paw in supplication.

"Oh, but you mustn't!" the red-head giggled, in a tone that clearly suggested she would prefer it ever-so-much if he did. Munkustrap marveled at the queen's skills—she was clearly Bombalurina's ingénue. "And now, you must go home." She said, deliberately freeing her paw and pushing him gently backwards. "It won't do if Pounce catches you in the queens' dressing room."

"Adieu, Joanie!" the tom cat said, melodramatically lifting his hat. He leaned in for a quick peck on the cheek and trundled down the steps into the alley, and, turning away from Munkustrap, lurched off into the distance. The red cats continued smoking by the doorway, watching the glow of the retreating cat's white spats dull and fade into the dark. Her expression breaking into a sneer which made her look much older than she was, she tossed the cigarette onto the floor and turned to re-enter the building.

"Wait!" Munkustrap called, running forward. The young queen stopped and glanced over her shoulder.

"Toms aren't allowed in here," she said curtly, wrapping her dressing gown tightly around her.

"You don't understand, I must see Bombalurina!" Munkustrap put on what he hoped was a look of foppish longing.

The corners of the red cat's mouth curled unpleasantly. "Yeah, you and the hordes of other toms in that room," she jerked her head towards the building. "Take a number, 'cos she's not seeing anyone."

"What if I were to offer you… a token of appreciation for your trouble?" He reached into his coat and picked out a diamond bracelet he had pocketed from one of Bombalurina's unsuspecting admirers.

Almost as if she was conscious of appearing too eager, the younger cat took great pains to slowly, and deliberately reach out to receive the bracelet. Munkustrap noticed that her smile was relaxing into one of genuine pleasure. "I suppose," she said carefully. "I suppose, say, if you were so big a fan, she wouldn't be opposed to a quick meeting." Her eyes flickered to his face.

"Thank you so much," he effused with boyish enthusiasm. He followed her into the building, walking past innumerable doors before stopping at one with a gilded 'B' fixed into it. There was something strange about the placement of the B, a little to the left instead of dead centre, as if there had been another letter nailed to the door to balance out the symmetry.

"I would appreciate it though, if you neglected to mention who let you in," the red cat whispered coyly. "I might get into trouble."

Munkustrap smiled winningly at her. "No worries." He waited till she had disappeared round the corner before rapping on the door.

"Who is it?" Bombalurina's replied sharply. He heard a rustling of clothes and footsteps. "If it's you, Joan, I told you I don't want to be disturbed. You're going to have to handle ol' Bustopher your—" The door swung open. "—self…" She broke off, and glared sullenly at the striped cat with red-rimmed eyes. "What, here to call me more nasty names?"

"Not unless you want me to." Seeing that she was neither amused nor in the mood for verbal sparring, he sighed and continued, "There was no name-calling involved," he groped for the right words. "There may have been some insinuation, the intent and meaning of you inferred yourself. Taking offence was entirely your choice."

She sniffed in response. After glancing around to check that the corridor was clear, stepped aside and let him enter her dressing room.

He took in the room, the lingering whiffs of perfume and stale cigarettes, the smell of powder, and the garish fluorescence of the décor. The room was divided into two sections by a silk Japanese screen that extended from wall to wall. In the section where he stood, there were two mirrors side by side, two dressing tables, two chairs; but while one side was filled with an array of disarrayed cosmetics, perfume bottles, photo frames and flowers, the other was conspicuously bare, save for the few articles of clothing carelessly strewn across the table. To the left of the dressing tables was a chaise longue where Bombalurina had settled herself, watching him warily.

"What's up with the new layout? What's behind the screen?"

"My personal quarters," she replied, her eyes darting to the screen briefly.

"For entertaining purposes?" Munkustrap smirked. "You queens really don't take the 'no Toms' rule very seriously do you?"

She made no reply, but he noticed that her lips tightened slightly as she fit a cigarette into her holder. "What do you want?" she asked, curtly. She was looking intently away from him, avoiding his gaze. "And don't even try to get smart with me. I'm not in the mood."

He shrugged, "Suits me." He crossed the room to the chaise longue. "I want the truth," he said, simply, lowering himself to pick up the lighter she was reaching for. "I think we're both done playing games, so there's no use denying it. I saw the look the shot Tugger. You were telling me what you thought he wanted you to say, weren't you?"

"Maybe," she said, slowly. She leaned in and let Munkustrap light her cigarette. She took a quick puff. "Maybe not." Her eyes met his, and for a split second a wretched expression crossed Bombalurina's face. "What does it matter now?" The nakedness of the misery in her voice took Munkustrap by surprise. She looked away quickly. After a pause, she lifted her head to look at him again and the wretched look had been replaced with a cold, closed expression. "Tell me, is it true, what Quaxo has been going around saying—is Alonzo…"

"Yes," Munkustrap replied quietly. "No, I don't know who did it, but that's what I intend to find out." Their eyes met again, but she quickly looked away, discomforted. Bombalurina raised her cigarette to her mouth with shaky paws.

"How's Cass taking it?"

"Considering the magnitude of this—she's doing alright. She's as tough as Jellicle queens come. Had the presence of mind to track me down in my office and tell me about this."

"Did you see him… see the body?" The corners of her mouth twitched a little as if she were about to cry.

"Yes," he said softly.

"Was he… it… how…" Her mouth tripped over what she wanted to say, unable to find a way to say it without confronting the fact of her friend's death.

"I don't think he suffered much," he lied, running over Cassandra's words at the morgue: _I told them to make it look like he had not felt very much pain_. What sort of horrific grimace did Lonz have before they forced his face into that grotesque roman comedy mask smile? He glanced at Bombalurina's face, and despite her attempts to keep her expression blank, he could sense the tumult underneath, and he suspected that she had not believed a word of his answer.

"I'm… I'm glad." She said tremulously.

As hardened as he might have become, Bombalurina's grief for Alonzo moved him. "I hadn't realized you were close."

She smiled a tight, tense smile at him as she took a drag of her cigarette, making no move to qualify his statement. The air in the room stilled as the smoke from the cigarette curled gently upwards. Alonzo's absent presence loomed over them as the silence started to make him feel impatient and uneasy, and the garish lights from the dressing table mirror and the sickly sweet smell of perfume pressed upon and suffocated him. It was warm in the dressing room, too warm; he felt like he was choking. Coughing, he tugged at his collar and loosened his tie. "I think, your sister might know more about what happened to Alonzo." He said gently, trying to keep the impatience out of his voice. "I need to find her. Will you tell me the truth about your sister?"

Her dark eyes flashed at him as she lifted the cigarette to her mouth. "Can't you leave well enough alone?" She continued, miserably, mechanically. "If you had a secret, you know I would keep it. I wouldn't… tell…"

"I need to know, Bombalurina." He looked intently at her. "Where is your sister?"

"I told you, I don't know!"

"I don't believe you!" He could feel the anger building in him, even as he tried to hold it in. "How is she linked to Alonzo? What are they wrapped up in?"

The furtive glance she gave him when he suggested Demeter's link with Alonzo confirmed that she knew more than she let on. Was Demeter in danger too, then? How could Bombalurina sit here and waste his time, if her sister's life hung in the balance? She gave a forced laugh. "What makes you think I would know anything—"

"She's your sister!" He snapped, losing his temper. "Don't you care that she might be in trouble?"

For a moment Bombalurina recoiled like he had slapped her. Collecting herself, she glared spitefully at the striped cat. "You have no clue when you're dealing with! This doesn't involve you."

"Alonzo was my best friend! And Demeter," he panted, his heart racing with rage. He realized, with a pang, he had used the past tense 'was' in referring to Alonzo. "You, of all people, should know how I felt about her. I am involved, even if I don't want to be."

"How can you help?" she snapped. "You gave up any right you had to know when you walked out of here two years ago!"

"Don't you dare," he snarled. "Hold that against me."

"You left us to fend for ourselves! If you were here—Alonzo… Alonzo…" She looked miserable. "You didn't protect Alonzo, Munk. What use are you to us now?"

The words were intended to cut, and they did. "I am not to blame for Alonzo's death!" He said quietly, but he doubted that he believed himself any more than Bombalurina did. "Help me fix this!" He said insistently, "Save your sister. Help me find her."

"Leave it well alone, Munk! I'm warning you." Her tone was low and dangerous now.

"This is no time to be playing games!" His pulse was racing now. "If your sister is out there mixed up with something that got Lonz killed—every second of mine you waste here means a second less to help her. How could you not want to help your sister!?"

The latter accusation stung, and she glared at him, her eyes turning red. "Fine," she spat. "So you want to know?" She looked scornfully at him. "She's dead, Munk. Dead! Like Alonzo. You didn't do anything for her, and now you can't anymore!" Then she burst into tears.

"You're lying," he blurted, mostly from reflex. He felt numb. He searched her face to see signs of duplicity, but she continued to sob quietly. He stood dumbly, watching her sob for a while before reaching into his coat pocket to retrieve his handkerchief. Instead his fingers closed on a small piece of paper. He threw it at Bombalurina. "You're lying," he said again. "Dead people don't write notes."

The existence of the note seemed to surprise Bombalurina. Hastily wiping away her tears, she opened the note with trembling hands and her eyes passed over the note several times. Sniffling, she handed it back to him. "Well, she might as well be dead now."

"What do you mean? Where is she now?"

"Who knows?" The red queen said bitterly. "I really don't know where she is, Munk. I haven't had contact with her for over a year." She looked imploringly at Munkustrap. "What I said, in front of Tugger, was the truth. I wasn't lying when I said she left. And yes, believe it, she left us."

"I still don't believe you. It makes no sense!" He said, frustrated. "Why would she go, why would she burn her bridges with everyone she knows?" He paused, processing the thought. But no matter how he turned the matter over, it did not make sense. Yet Bombalurina was telling the truth now, he was sure of it. As good a showgirl as she was, she could not possibly have feigned the sort of unabated sorrow she displayed when she had believed her sister dead. "How could she have just left?"

"How could _you_?" Bombalurina shot back. "You broke her heart, you know. We were all having a bad time after that business with Electra. Yet, instead of staying," she stubbed her cigarette angrily. "You left. You were supposed to be there for us, Munk. You were supposed to tell us what to do, how to move on—but you just packed and abandoned us all. Can you blame Dem? We lost our leader, but she lost so much more." Her expression was one of misery. "So she got really sad," She looked at him with wide eyes. "And then she just got really angry. Then she… I don't know, she just… disappeared. There was no news, no letters explaining why, until one day… we got a letter delivered to the Lair. She told us not to go find her, said she was running with… a different crowd now."

"Who?" Munkustrap breathed. "Who is she with?"

Bombalurina shakily put down her cigarette and looked Munkustrap in the eyes. What happened after, as Munkustrap would later recall it, seemed to happened in slow motion, where the stifling atmosphere of the dressing room seemed to solidify and become still and the noise drowned by static. Yet, over and above this drowned silence, his eyes saw her lips move and, not entirely synchronized, his ears heard her voice intone shakily, "The Hidden Paw."

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Munkustrap unlocked the door to his apartment and kicked it open angrily. Throughout the walk home from the Heaviside Lair his mind had been a whirl of jumbled up thoughts. There were too many questions left unanswered, more in fact, than those he had started with. What Bombalurina had thrown at him had caught him completely off-guard. His head was spinning, the result of a combination of a lack of sleep and—well, what else? Horror at his friend's death; shock at his friend's betrayal; offence at the ignominy of his treatment at the lair; all these emotions jostled in his head for attention. His body was trying to shut down from the overload, but his brain kept moving and churning trying to jolt the heart into reaction. He needed a smoke; no, he needed something stronger than a smoke. He needed something to dull and still his mind, to render it blissfully blank for a bit; for just a while, if he could embrace oblivion and escape the surreal un-pleasantries of the past 24 hours. He walked to his kitchen and threw open the lower cabinet. He tapped the lower board till the sound rang hollow. Prying the board off, he reached under and groped about until his hands found the long, sleek body of his opium pipe. He tried to pull it out, but at that point his brain intervened and he faltered.

The world ran on rules. Rules governing decorum, behavior, morals—together they made up the world as people knew it. One had to obey the rules. To ignore them would be to embrace anarchy. The rules were comforting because they helped him to tidy his life neatly into Things He Could Do, and Things He Couldn't. He let go of the pipe and replaced the board neatly. One had to heed the rules, especially those that you had put into place for yourself. The rules, in this case, said No, You Couldn't.

He padded back out of the kitchen, aware now that he was breathing heavily and that he had clenched his fists so tight that they had begun shaking. He had unconsciously stopped in front the big cork board mounted on the wall that formed the centerpiece of his sitting room. He glanced at it, and his eyes immediately found the yellowed article that had plagued him all night. _KITTEN FOUND DROWNED IN BAG, WASHED UP ON RIVER BANK_, screamed the headlines_. _The anger and fury was rising in him again. The animal in him was howling now, the same animal in him that told him to let go of the rules and decorum, to throw caution into the wind and embrace the chaos and madness that anarchy held.

Munkustrap had always been vaguely aware of the animal in him. When harnessed correctly, it made him a formidable fighter, and a worthy protector of the gang. In the past, the rules were used to draw the boundaries which boxed in the animal and made it an asset, not a curse. But ever since the sight of Electra's damp, limp body had been seared into his mind; it had become harder to force the animal back into the boundaries and to make it stay there. It was tempting, he had to concede, to succumb to the black, black fury; to be sucked into the dark, to be blind to the world that was spinning out of control; to scream, to shout, to rend limb from limb anyone that crossed him. Yet, his deeply-instilled sense of right or wrong intervened—the rules must be followed. He had been brought up to believe that as an unwavering truth. Rules existed to be followed. He had to swallow the scream that threatened to climb up out of his gullet and claw its way out of his mouth. There was no time to waste on fruitless rage; use that energy; channel it to find the person responsible.

But who was responsible? He ran his eyes over the myriads of news clippings that covered the board from corner to corner. Each one was covered with underlines and scribbling, as if each article was written in a secret code and if he cracked the code he could figure out the answer to the question that had haunted him for the past two years. Each article covered crimes, both minor and major, all seemingly unlinked. Yet, he felt, deep down in his gut that each of them had been orchestrated and carried out by an invisible paw—The Hidden Paw, an apt nickname. He had searched manically for clues these past two years, scouring papers, interviewing members of the underground, tapping informants—some oft-repeated facts began to emerge: his name was Macavity; they said he had scars that marred and disfigured his face; they said he was everywhere and nowhere, all at once. Yet once probed for more concrete details, the lines between myth, hearsay and truth began to blur. No one had seen him in person—the only people willing talk to him about the Hidden Paw were those that were so far down the chain of command they could talk with impunity; no one knew where he operated from; no one could offer any real, concrete piece of evidence that linked him to anything traceable, not a bank account, a phone bill, let alone a paw print.

For the past few months Munkustrap had been tormented by the thought that possibly this cat was not real at all. All he had been chasing these two years had been smoke and mirrors; no more than a fairy tale, a bogeyman. How could he be sure that what he was pursuing was not some sort of collective nightmare, but flesh and bone?

Yet tonight, of all nights, he had found the confirmation he had so desired. Macavity was real! He was a real, living cat. If Demeter had found him—then he had to be traceable somehow. But ay, there's the rub. Demeter had found him, and was with him. The revelation that his enemy was mortal after all instead of filling him with grim excitement only gave him a darker despair. Demeter, Judas to her tribe? Surely not; it couldn't be. He wouldn't believe it. But what was the alternative? That she was captive, held against her will; or trapped, and living in fear? He felt sick with unease. Was that what Alonzo was trying to do, get her to safety? _Take care of her_, he had told Lonz at their final meeting. Alonzo had not given Munkustrap any indication he had heard, but Munkustrap knew that Lonz's better nature would honor that request. So Lonz had gotten himself killed trying to do the job that had been dumped upon him, when it was really Munkustrap's responsibility. Could he have changed the outcome; saved Alonzo? What could he have done?

With his head pounding with the collision of thoughts which churned together and collided in his mind, he padded off to his bedroom and curled up on his bed, in approximation of the position he had been in after the news of Electra's death broke.

_The door opened, and she came close to him, and even though he faced away from her, he heard the soft pad, pad, pad of her feet crossing the apartment. He smelt her scent as she stood by the bed, he knew that her gaze begged him to turn and face her, but he couldn't. He felt her climb into bed gingerly, and her arms slip around him, pulling him into her as she lowered her head onto his and her golden hair fell over him. As the last vestiges of the day's sun petered into the room through shuttered windows, the golden veil of her hair glowed and in spite of the emptiness in him, filled him with warmth. _

He had felt like he was on the cusp of madness. But her arms had anchored him, had kept him warm, kept him safe. But now the bed was cold and empty and it was only him. He closed his eyes and willed his mind to be silent and to let him rest.

When Munkustrap would finally come to it would be well past noon and his still wet pillow the only proof that he had wept all night long.

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**To all who have written reviews, or listed this as a favorite****, and/or signed up for a story alert—thank you! It's been very encouraging to have feedback about this.**

**This also marks the end of the first part of the story, most of the details of the mystery have now been revealed. It's also**** the longest chapter yet, and because it was written in bits and pieces, it runs smooth and sags alternatingly. Any C & C would be appreciated. :) **


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